


Another man's amusement

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Multi, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon makes himself useful in multiple ways to Roose Bolton.  Written for second got_exchange comment fic meme on Livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another man's amusement

It began with an interrogation.

“Tell me about Robb Stark.”

Theon remembered a bright-haired boy who, instead of quailing under the weight of the crown, assumed the mantle with the resigned honor of his father. But before that, he had merely been a boy. A brother, almost. Maybe more than that, if awkward lingering glances and fumblings in the darkness counted for anything. To Theon, they no longer did, not that, if they were to meet again, Robb would do less than strike the head from his shoulders.

Just as his father would. Just as, perhaps, he deserved.

But he was Bolton’s man now, or at least he aspired to be, assuming that, if he were _just_ useful enough, he might be more than a hostage come again. Not that Bolton would release him. But he might give him an occupation. He might call off the mad dog that he named his heir.

Theon had become quite the expert in self-denial.

It was an elaborate lie that extended beyond his traitorous embroideries of minutia that he recalled while sitting in Roose Bolton’s rooms, drinking his wines, eating his food. It was not pleasant company, but it afforded him the luxury of pretending that he was still the prince that he’d been, instead of the turncloak he’d become. He knew that Bolton knew that he prevaricated, that he embellished details that, in the grand scheme of things, were meaningless.

He doubted that Bolton cared. But he wondered sometimes why the man bothered with the charade.

One evening, after detailing what little he knew of Stark battle plans, Roose Bolton beckoned him closer.

“On your knees,” he said softly, almost gently, and although he did not comprehend, Theon knelt before him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, positioning him gently yet firmly, and when it travelled to his face, tipping his chin upwards, he was even more confused.

“What would you have me do, my Lord?” he asked, peering up through the shadows.

“What do you do with my son?” Bolton’s voice was even, but underneath, there was a note of amusement.

“I…obey Lord Ramsay,” he said, struggling to get out the words, to say it properly. “I…do as he bids.”

Bolton laughed softly. “And you will do as I bid.” He guided Theon’s hands to the front of his breeches. “I have had enough of your bowing and scraping. It is high time that you use your tongue for something more useful than ingratiation.”

“What of your lady wife?” The words were out before Theon could stop himself, and inwardly, he readied for a blow that did not quite come.

Bolton did not react immediately, merely staring at Theon as if he’d grown a second head. He was not used to being contradicted. “It is not your place to question an order, Greyjoy.”

Theon hung his head, cheeks flaming. “I merely thought,” words dying on his tongue as Bolton’s cold eyes met his.

“You are not here to think,” Bolton said. “I grow weary of waiting.” His hands pressed on Theon’s shoulders, pulling him close, and while Theon readied himself he focused on small details: the pink signet ring on Roose Bolton’s finger, the way that his hands firmly grasped Theon’s hair, the feel of the rushes beneath his knees.

He tried then, also, to think of Robb, but it did not help if at all.

When he took Bolton in his mouth, the other man did not react. He was calm and collected, even when Theon dared to bare his teeth a bit, almost forgetting himself. And when Bolton’s breath quickened, his body at last betraying his control, Theon felt himself stiffening in response, with the knowledge that, however base, he might still retain some power.

But it was over all too soon and Theon was left to lie on the floor, his frustration evident on his face, in his crabbed position. Roose Bolton, always observant, noted his hardness, visible through his ill-gotten finery, and for the first time that evening, smiled.

“My Lord,” Theon said, his voice barely audible in the pressing silence.

“You may go. I require nothing further this evening.”

And he was left to gather himself, to shamble out of his Lord’s chambers, where his Lord’s man waited to take him below again, where he will wait until it is time again to become another man’s plaything.


End file.
